


Little Mutinies

by Birdie_jc



Category: Original Work, The People of Forever are Not Afraid (Shani Boianjiu)
Genre: F/F, Female soldiers, Israel Defense Forces | IDF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-05-04
Packaged: 2021-03-01 22:21:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23884423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Birdie_jc/pseuds/Birdie_jc
Summary: This story about a female army officer in Israel is inspired by the writing of Shani Boianjiu and a visit to Hebron. It's not necessarily a realistic story - just a collection of themes that are working themselves out in my head. Comments are very welcome.“Maybe trouble isn’t something you do. It’s something you are.”-Shani Boianjiu, The Sound of All Girls Screaming
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	1. War of Stones

Hadar threads her hand through Kineret’s hair, pulling tightly and immobilizing her head. “Close your eyes,” she orders. Kineret, confused, barely has time to obey before pain explodes across the side of her face. Someone screams – it isn’t her, as all the air in her lungs has left in a gasp. She feels her cheek and eye swelling up, tastes metallic blood from a split lip. 

“Apologize,” Hadar says calmly, “or you will be removed from the battalion.”

It is the only threat that might force her to give in. And this is what the captain remembers three years later, when she chooses Kineret as an officer during the formation of Caracal.

……………………………

The boys had been arrested for throwing stones. It was a common occurrence at their base in Hebron. Two Palestinian brothers had sneaked through the barrier and pelted the officers on duty, then attempted an unsuccessful escape on foot – after managing to crack the checkpoint window. The sergeant tackled the older boy roughly to the ground, twisting his arm behind him while he screamed. “Private!” the sergeant called, and Kineret climbed down from the guard tower to approach. 

Closer up, she could see how young they were – one boy around ten, the other bar mitzvah age – which meant he could be considered an adult. “Come,” the sergeant ordered Kineret, and she followed behind them as he zip-tied their skinny wrists and dragged them toward a holding cell. “You keep an eye on them,” he told her, “and bring them to the battalion office when you’re called.” 

“Yes, sir.” She saluted, and took the key he offered after clanging the barred door shut and locking it.

They peered out at her, half-stubborn and half-fearful. She sighed, knowing the drill. In an hour or two, the boys would be summoned, interrogated on their links to any terrorist organizations, and tried in military court. On charges of trespassing, violence and vandalism, they’d no doubt find themselves on a travel blacklist, and likely face jail time. It was the usual mess she was so very tired of after the first three months of her rotation here. 

She sat down on a bench beside the concrete wall, her legs a little shaky after standing so long in the heat. She lit a cigarette and tried to relax her breathing. Her walkie – talkie buzzed after about thirty minutes with instructions to deliver the boys – the officers must not have as much on their plate today.

Unlocking the cell door, she motioned them out and took the older one’s arm. She made a grab for the younger one, but he ducked back into a corner. “Come here,” she said, frustrated, but he seemed not to know even that much Hebrew. “Behave yourselves and you’ll be fine.” After a minute, he inched out, and she knew on impulse he was going to bolt the moment before he did. “Goddamn it!” She didn’t mean to slam him against the wall in her haste to grab him; it just happened. The way a lot of things happened here. Subdued for the moment, he walked obediently beside her as they made their way toward the compound.

Except – aware there were few eyes on them – Kineret made the opposite turn on reaching the gate, leading them down the hill toward the covered Palestinian market. 

The younger boy glanced at her. “Giveret?” Miss.

She didn’t answer his unspoken question, except to correct the title: “Chayelet” – Soldier. Later, she would fail to explain what she had been thinking. Sometimes, it was such a relief not to think. “What is your address?” she asked the older one, first in Hebrew and then in her rough Arabic. They glanced at one another before he told her. Kineret walked them there – past a settlers’ apartment building with its banner – ‘This is Jewish property – purchased in 1817 – we have the deed!’ She could feel many curious eyes on them as they made their way up the hilly side streets, though no one dared to challenge a soldier. The house was dilapidated but pretty – flower tendrils wove their way up through a sun-roofed terrace. Knocking hard at the door, she heard footsteps and met eyes with a tall brown-skinned woman. And saw the immediate flash of fear. 

Kineret cleared her throat, cut the zip ties, and pushed the boys toward her. “Keep them at home or there’ll be trouble,” she said, though it didn’t quite come out like a warning. Then she made her way back to the base, and up to the battalion office, alone.

“Where are the boys?” the secretary asked her.

“I took them home.”

“What?” The man seemed too bewildered to be angry. It was likely, Kineret figured, that this had never happened before. “You what?”

“Sorry,” she said simply. He motioned her to sit down while he made a quick phone call. And if he had failed to be angry, there was no such danger from Captain Hadar when she arrived to fetch her. Fury crackled from the woman with the force of electricity. She didn’t address Kineret, though, until they stood across the desk from one another in the familiar office. 

“Explain,” Hadar said, “exactly what you could possibly have been thinking.”

“I guess…I wanted to improve Arab relations,” Kineret offered. She didn’t mean it to sound so flippant, but she wasn’t great at communicating with officers at the best of times. 

“Your job is to follow the chain of command,” Hadar said, after a brief moment of being rendered speechless. “Of which no one gives a damn about improving Arab relations. The best we can hope to maintain these days is a cease-fire. Do you understand?”

“No, ma’am,” Kineret said. She felt a dangerous, foolish bravery swelling in her chest. “They threw stones. That’s all they can do, because we have the bullets.”

Hadar closed her eyes a moment. She massaged the tense lines on her forehead before regarding her again. “The only explanation I can think of is that you are not yet in a mental state to serve again after the…loss of your brother. You can take a ten-day mandatory leave and go home to Nahariya.”

“I can’t,” Kineret said. She couldn’t face the empty house and the lost look in her mother’s eyes. And she was fit to serve – maybe more than she’d ever been, now that she’d experienced the cost. 

“The only other choice is for me to treat this incident as if you are in your right mind,” Hadar continued. “Which would be unfortunate.”

“I’m not taking leave,” Kineret said steadily.

“For God’s sake, Kineret, pick a different hill to die on.” She flinched at the choice of words, but shook her head. Hadar nodded grimly. “Well, I’m not having this become a paper trail.” She opened her desk drawer, and pulled out a heavy rubber strap. It was used in interrogations, mostly for show. Officially. 

“Take off your uniform jacket.” Kineret obeyed, the stiff canvas stubborn to yield against the metal buttons. She slipped it off and stood in her white camisole, the air in the room – or her nervousness – raising goosebumps on her bare arms and shoulders. Hadar shoved some paperwork out of the way and guided her body down across the desk. There were a few moments of stillness, and Kineret pressed her mouth against the back of one hand. 

The crack of the strap was horribly loud. Kineret had a high pain tolerance – she’d discovered this while accumulating the collection of tattoos her mother hated – but these sharp cuts felt like they might split her open. She kept her head down and prayed for the beating to end while she could keep her dignity. Of course, she still ended up screaming. They all did, eventually. 

“Get up,” Hadar said when it was over, and Kineret stood and immediately slipped her jacket on again – she could deal later with how to get the blood out. “I should make you go chase those kids down again,” the captain observed conversationally, “but no one has time for that. Go back to your unit and try not to make this place implode.”

“Yes, Captain Hadar.” 

It might have been all right, had she not taken a shortcut through the parade ground because walking hurt too damn much. There were three figures still there below the flag, which was wrong for this time of day. She could see Samina, their Arabic translator, saluting while two of the sergeants watched. From the trembling of her bent arm and the white patches on her face, Kineret knew her friend had been standing at attention for some time. 

“Come on, prove how much you love your country.”

It was Cohen, a young officer Kineret particularly disliked. During drills, their unit had come to the brink of a little mutiny with her more than once. But what really got under her skin was Cohen’s disrespect for Samina – who, as a Palestinian citizen of Israel, had not been drafted and did not have to be there; who had volunteered and tried in her quiet, unobtrusive way to help them make some sense out of this shit show. 

“What’s going on?” Kineret asked, trying to keep the heat out of her voice as she stepped up beside them. 

Cohen waved her away. “No one said anything to you, Levy.” The other officer was a man Kineret didn’t know, and she ignored him, stepping in closer.

“No, I said something to you.” 

“Are you out of your mind? Do you have heatstroke? Go back to the barracks.” When she didn’t budge, Cohen’s eyes narrowed. “Piss. Off. Unless you want to join your friend.” 

“We’ll both go,” Kineret said. “Come on, Samina.”

Samina glanced at her, alarmed. At the same moment, involuntarily, her shaking arm lowered to her side, drawing the sergeant’s attention back. “I told you to keep your arm up.” Cohen shoved her to the ground, and Kineret found herself in motion, again, without thinking. She flew at the officer, tackling her, as well, down into the dust. Her aching body throbbed with the motion, but she struck out at Cohen while the other officer dragged her backwards. “Jesus Christ!” Kineret laughed at the irony of this curse in a Jewish army; they all used it. She reached out a hand and pulled Samina to her feet. 

“This isn’t the end,” Cohen spat out.

“Good,” Kineret said. 

They reached the barracks and sat down on the cool metal bed frames, their knees almost touching.

“You okay?” she asked the translator.

“It was just their usual nonsense. What in God’s name happened, Kineret?”

She shrugged off the uniform jacket – she’d have to change anyway before inspection. 

“Jesus,” Samina said.

Kineret took the jacket to the sink to scrub out the stains. “Jesus,” she agreed.


	2. Oceans in the Desert

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "He hopes I will take some time to think of ways I can become a better soldier. I wish I were a better soldier. At night, no matter how hard I try, I think about everything but how to become a better soldier." - Shani Boianjiu

Kineret dreams of water – not to fill her canteen, but ocean water on the Tel Aviv beach. When the beret march is done and they finally get leave, she imagines arriving in the blazing afternoon sun, slipping off every piece of uniform and gear – khakis, boots, rifle – and bobbing weightless in the waves for hours. She’d stay in the silky warmth of that water through cool twilight and into dark, watching the glowing white cliffs of old Jaffa. 

…………………………………….

After Hadar forced her to apologize to Cohen, Kineret’s friends in the unit convinced her to visit the infirmary to be patched up. They couldn’t give her anything good for the pain, but Samina sneaked ice back from the kitchen for her, to bring down the swelling on her face and also crunch slowly, cube by cube, as a distraction when they couldn’t sleep. 

Their beret march – or masa kumta, marking the end of their advanced training – would be in a week, and until then they put her back on checkpoint duty, where she could sit behind a counter and recuperate. She decided that she was jaded – as jaded as it was possible to be at eighteen. They’d had dreams, hadn’t they, of doing something great or at least patriotic? And now here she was, arguing with an elderly German tourist over nail scissors that had set off the metal detector at the entrance to the Cave of the Patriarchs. 

She knew they’d make her visit home eventually, but volunteered as usual to stay on the base over Shabbat. She didn’t open her mail, or call home on the pay phone, even though she knew she should. She did attend Friday night dinner in the mess hall to light the candles, bless the challah, and drink more red wine than was strictly permitted. Normally her manners tended towards sullen and sarcastic, and Samina escorted her back to the barracks before any of the higher-ups noticed how animated she’d become. Soon the wine made Kineret sleepy and she lay on her side, watching the translator write letters home in Arabic. Her friend was used to quiet weekends alone on base. As much as everyone encouraged solidarity, their unit was a microcosm of the country’s tensions: little territories, little mutinies. 

When Kineret tried to place exactly when the unit had begun to seem at war with itself, she remembered the day of the march. 

The desert air seemed to burn their skin, and sparks of refracting light made them squint. Sand shifted beneath their feet. The soldiers prepared their equipment and stood in formation, waiting for Captain Hadar. She made her way toward the battalion holding a canteen. Each soldier’s hand flew to the carabiner at her waist, and for a moment only, Samina’s face drained white. 

Field units were often warned that forgotten equipment could have deadly consequences. In such heat, water canteens were required at all times, even more so on the day of a march. “Who does this belong to?” the captain asked. Samina raised a hand. The soldiers shifted on their feet, expecting some collective penalty – a run around the barracks, maybe. It was a mistake anyone might make, not like forgetting a rifle. 

“What happens if you forget your canteen during a desert maneuver?” Hadar continued. Kineret wasn’t sure if it was a rhetorical question; no one dared to answer. Their platoon commander, Galit, tended to be reasonable and levelheaded, and they all looked to her. Which made Hadar angry. “Who is in charge of this drill? Eyes front.” She uncapped the canteen and emptied it onto the sand, then tossed it to Samina, who clipped it again at her belt. “You’ll complete the march as planned. No one is to give her water.”

“Captain Hadar –” Galit began, but their captain cut her off with a wave of her hand. 

“Enough. She’ll learn. Anyone who gives her water will be dropped from the march and the battalion. If she cannot complete the march, she’ll be dropped as well. Beseder?”

“Yes, Commander.” They marched out in formation. Kineret’s mouth was already dry. She could be scatterbrained enough that if it had been her canteen, no one would have been surprised. Samina was so careful, though. Already an outsider, she was determined not to make mistakes, to be infallible. But none of them were. 

Her friend kept up. She did not complain, or look at anyone; only ahead. When the others stopped for water, Galit averted her eyes as if to allow the chance for disobedience, but Samina turned away lest anyone take notice. It was over an hour before her energy seemed to obviously flag. She occasionally stumbled, or wavered on her feet, but so did some others, and the sergeants urged them on with short, clipped commands. At last Samina stumbled and fell for the first time. Her vision darkened. “Get up,” Hadar commanded, and somehow she was able to, before, minutes later, falling a second time. This time she did not rise.

A lone figure flew out of line and dropped to her knees in the sand. Hadar shouted at her to stop, but Kineret stubbornly, resolutely, helped Samina to sit up, held her own canteen to Samina’s lips and helped her drink. Neither Hadar nor Galit said a word. After a moment, Samina was once again on her feet. The sand had burned her face where she had fallen. They completed the march. Samina did not fall again. They received their berets, and no one was dropped from the battalion.

But at that night’s rest hour, as the exhausted soldiers sat on their cots or on the cool concrete floor, Hadar entered and called the room to attention. They stood in a motionless row, with the cool dread of not knowing what might happen next. 

“I don’t know where the trouble began in your unit, but this is where it ends,” Hadar said. 

“The trouble started when the Arab girl joined the platoon,” Cohen said.

“It started when we occupied the territories!” Kineret blurted out. 

“Quiet!” Hadar pulled Samina and Kineret out of line by their arms. Kineret knew she really might have left well enough alone. Something about Samina’s resoluteness, her refusal to lash back or become discouraged, had set off that spark in her again, the determination to make decisions that were not hers to make. 

Hadar led them out of the barracks to the gravel pathway, which was lit by floodlights in the dark. “Kneel.”

Kineret and Samina glanced at each other for only a moment before they obeyed. They had learned to keep their faces expressionless. Samina felt the sharp edge of a rock cut into her knee, but neither made a sound. Hadar waved the soldier on guard over with a curt motion. “They’ll stay here until the watch changes. If they fall down, or move from this place, have them brought straight to me.”

The night guard nodded and returned to her post. The shift would change in four hours. Hadar began to walk away. Kineret reached for Samina’s hand, and found the other soldier reaching out as well. They squeezed hands in a moment of silent connection. 

“Hands at your sides,” Hadar said, as if she had known without turning back. The lights in the barracks went out, but they had their berets and knew they would make it to morning.

The guard released them an hour before dawn. When they crept inside, the others were asleep in their bunks. Samina sat on her cot and looked a question at Kineret, who climbed in beside her. She realized they were both shivering; whether from sunburn, dehydration or fatigue, she could not tell. “Let’s go to the ocean,” Kineret mumbled into the pillow.

“What?” Samina’s eyes gleamed in the dark. 

“We’re not really here. Not tonight. We’re at the beach in Tel Aviv.”

“I’ve never seen the ocean,” Samina said.

“Really?”

“I never left the village much at all till now. We tried not to cause any trouble. But I guess it’s too late for that.”

Kineret embraced her. They burrowed further beneath the thin sheets and rough blanket. “You can taste the salt, and feel the waves. They’ll carry you away.”

“I can feel it,” Samina said, and the night faded into pounding heartbeats and smooth, warm skin, and after rocketing into the aftermath, both of them straining to fend off sleep. Eventually it overtook them. Their respite would not last long, but it was enough. Kineret wished that she was a translator too, that she could put her feelings into words, her loss into connection.


End file.
